it's a wooden pickle.

2005-12-18T06:29:41Z

This is me. Scratching words onto paper as if someone really wanted to listen to what I had to say. I put my notebook down on the driveway next to me. You want to hear it as much as I want to hear you tell me about you. Not at all. I’d rather perform rhinoplasty on your face with a claw hammer. Excise teeth with a pair of pliers and an acetylene torch. You open your mouth and I want to pour molten gold down your throat like they did with the Emperor Valerian to slake your thirst.
“Dude, dude. I gotta tell you this story. You’ll love this one.”
We had survived only a few moments of silence before he broke it again. He was like an old woman complaining how much she hated when people repeat themselves ten times in five minutes. He promised no stories tonight. They weren’t true anyway. He wasn’t the cause of the swirling torment inside me, but he was the only one sitting out here with me and that made him my primary target. He continued.
“I have this condition, I don’t know what the fuck it is, right. But, anyways, it made this pocket on my small intestine, ok?”.
I nodded in confused acceptance, hoping my eyes would speak the hate about where I was and why I was there that I could not voice. He didn’t notice in the least.
“So, this condition, right. It ended up bursting, this pocket burst. Because of where it was, it made this hole from my intestine into my bladder. Anyways, I didn’t even know anything had gone wrong until I used this sketchy truck stop at the top of this hill, you can see it from Interstate 50. You know where I’m talking about?”
No. “Yes.”
“So, yeah, I was all fucked up and shit. Completely wasted. Tweaking so bad. Trying to mind my own business, hoping I wouldn’t get ass raped or catch AIDS or something. I just remember I was singing this song. I kept singing this song but I can’t remember what song it was, so don’t ask. It bus me that I can’t remember.
“What song was it, Doug?”
“Fuck you. Anyways, this bathroom was just basically a long tin for everyone to line up against and piss. But….I couldn’t piss. I felt like I had to, but instead of pee, air started coming out. It was gas, dude. I was pissing out farts! It sounded like pbbbbbllllt. Unfuckingbelievable, huh?”
My anger and self-loathing evaporated and I wanted to scream with laughter at what I had just heard, but I felt guilty at changing emotions so quickly. It wasn’t natural.
“Doug. I think you are insane.”
“No, seriously. I was pissing farts. It kinda tickled.”
I held my laughter in as best as I could. I didn’t want to show any positive emotions just yet. I was in rehab - rehabilitation. I was supposed to be thinking about sobriety, how much I hated drugs, facing my demons and all that cliché bullshit. I didn’t feel like laughing anymore. I stood up from the lawn chair, went inside and sat in silence on the couh. Fucking rehab.

smilehappytears

it's a wooden pickle.